


Something I'd Never Lose (Something Somebody Stole)

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Aliens, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-31
Updated: 2007-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange accident leads to even stranger happenings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something I'd Never Lose (Something Somebody Stole)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Halloween Ficathon; title taken from Billy Joel's "In the Middle of the Night". Thanks to and other awesome people for helping me out with information over at .

_In the middle of the night  
I go walking in my sleep  
Through the valley of fear  
To a river so deep  
I'm a searcher for something  
Taken out of my soul  
Something I'd never lose  
Something somebody stole..._

  


***

  
 _Transcript from a 911 call received by Lamar Township Emergency Services (Clinton County, PA) at 11:16 a.m. on September 1, 2003_.

 **911 dispatcher:** 911, state your emergency.

 **Caller:** I. There's been an accident. Please, send help.

 **911 dispatcher:** What's your name, sir?

 **Caller:** My name's- - -

 **911 dispatcher:** Tell me that again.

 **Caller:** Trohman, Joe Trohman.

 **911 dispatcher:** Ok, Joe, can you tell me the emergency?

 **Caller:** We, um, we were driving and then there was...I dunno, this f***ing blue light, a bright blue light and we crashed. It wasn't even a bad crash but, but Patrick. I think Patrick hit his head and now he won't wake up.

 **911 dispatcher:** He's breathing, right, Joe?

 **Caller:** \----

 **911 dispatcher:** It's okay, Joe, just repeat that for me.

 **Caller:** Yeah, he's, he's breathing and everything but he won't wake up! Oh, God.

 _Background speech._

 **911 dispatcher:** Can you tell me your location? Where are you, Joe?

 **Caller:** We're on... f***, where are we. We're on the interstate. There's a sign, Ludlow Farms.

 **911 dispatcher:** We're sending a unit out there right now. Can you hold the line?

 **Caller:** I think so, I dunno-- Pete, don't do that, just. Wait, stop. Oh God, he's throwing up, he's throwing up stuff.

 **911 dispatcher:** Joe, Joe, listen to me. Is he still breathing? Check if he's still breathing.

 **Caller:** \---- no, no, he's. Oh, he's not breathing at all.

 **911 dispatcher:** Turn him on his left side.

 **Caller:** Turn him on his side, on his left side! Just do it, that's what they told me! Ok, ok, he's on his side.

 **911 dispatcher:** Shake his shoulders, call his name. Make sure he doesn't respond.

 **Caller:** Ok, shake his shoulders. Call his name... Patrick. Patrick. Patrick.

 _Background speech_.

 **Caller:** He said something, he's responding. Oh, f***, oh god.

 _Call Ends_

***

 

Detective Roy Jameson turned off the recorder and sat staring at the slight man in front of him. The man wasn't looking back at him; he was busy rubbing at his eyes, smearing his eyeliner and then running his hands through closely-cropped dark hair, over and over. Jameson folded his lips in, considering the tight jeans and hooded jacket; the shoulders were hunched miserably under the material of that jacket. Every line in the young man's body radiated despair.

Detective Jameson cleared his throat; the man stopped knuckling his eyes like a small child and gazed back at him. His eyes were big and brown, and red from a serious lack of sleep.

"You want something to drink? Coffee?"

The man's gaze sharpened, focusing on the detective. He nodded and Detective Jameson raised his eyebrows at his partner, who gave an almost inaudible sigh as he rose and exited the small, dim room. Jameson watched as the young man's eyes drooped, eyelids heavy.

"Mr. Wentz," Jameson said urgently and the man's eyes snapped open, a small tired smile touching the corners of his lips.

"Dude, just Pete will do. Mr. Wentz is my dad." Pete exhaled softly, closing his eyes again and rolling his shoulders. "He's my lawyer too."

"I know," Jameson said stiffly. Peter Wentz, Senior, had been blocking them at nearly every turn in this investigation. It was only quite recently that they had managed to get the younger Wentz in for questioning. Pete's dark eyes flickered open and he gave Jameson a long, probing stare.

"He's my lawyer. But like I said, he's my dad first."

"Here's your coffee," Detective Shelby said in a low voice as he returned, setting a small white cup in front of Pete. "We don't have any sugar."

"That's cool."

Both detectives just watched as he took slow sips. Jameson noted the deep line in the skin between those dark eyebrows. Pete Wentz was a young man, in the prime of his life, yet he moved with the pained, jerky movements of someone living with years of arthritis.

"So. After this accident, Patrick Stumph started acting... strangely." Shelby was the one who spoke up, his deep voice rumbling quietly. Lightning flashed outside and Pete flinched, the tortured lines of his face highlighted with the fierce light from the small window. The thunder roiled with gentle menace in the afternoon air as Pete nodded.

Then he began to talk.

***

 

"We're... we're not quite sure what's wrong," the doctor in the small Lamar hospital said, baffled. "There's no head trauma, no internal bleeding. No injury at all, none to speak of, but we can't seem to wake him up."

"He's breathing on his own again, right?" Andy was sitting close enough to Pete that he could feel the movement of air across his cheek from the drummer's soft speech. Pete's confused mind was latching onto Andy's voice almost with desperation. It had been busy reliving the accident, trying to piece together snapshots of information.

He had been balanced on that thin blade between sleep and wakefulness, practically dreaming about filming the new video as the chilly cargo-van had rolled determinedly through the white landscape that was rural Pennsylvania. It was going to be _awesome_ , his instinct had assured him as he had tried to find a comfortable spot; almost impossible with the warm weight of seemingly _everyone_ in the bus piled on him.

He had seen a blue flash; actually, his eyes had still been closed, but the weird blue light had been shockingly bright enough to create that red glow behind his eyelids. There had been an accompanying hum that Pete had barely heard underneath Joe's loud cursing, but nevertheless it had seemed to press against him briefly, almost too low on the auditory scale, more felt in his bones than heard.

Pete had snapped fully awake as the van had lurched across the ice, hurtling towards the small forest at the side of the road. Right before they had struck the trees, he had heard Patrick make a strange sound... a pained _oof_ , as if someone had punched him right in the solar plexus.

Everyone had piled out, shaken and brushing glass from the shattered windows. Except Patrick.

Now, as the doctor nodded at Andy's question and opened his mouth to speak again, pausing abruptly as a plump nurse (Pete noted miserably that her hair colour was almost identical to Patrick's) appeared beside him and clutched at the doctor's elbow, whispering fiercely, her eyes skittering over Pete, Andy, Joe and the tiny crew.

"What?" The doctor gave her a look that was almost angry in its confusion. "What are you--" He broke off and glanced at them again, before nodding grimly. "I'll be right back. Please wait here."

 _Fuck that_. Pete got quickly his feet and slapped away Andy's hands at the back of his hooded jacket, running in the wake of the doctor, who was moving quickly himself. He thought he would lose the doctor when he turned down a corridor, but caught sight of the edge of his white coat snapping into a nearby room. Pete nearly fell on the smooth floor in his haste and grabbed onto the edge of the doorjamb, watching as Patrick's body convulsed on the bed inside the room.

There were two doctors yelling instructions and moving around urgently; if Pete had been in the right frame of mind, he would have admired the complicated steps, an urgent tango.

"No!" Patrick cried hoarsely, almost sitting up. His eyes were opened, but Pete saw that they were unseeing, blank, the pupils almost completely covering the irises. Pete didn't realized that he had clenched his fist at his chest, looking like a small, lost boy as the doctors and nurses struggled with Patrick.

Patrick began to speak.

It was the most awful, guttural thing Pete had ever heard, sharp arrogant consonants in a strange language that Pete could hardly decipher, much less recognize, mainly because his blood was throbbing frantically in his ears. Patrick stopped this and then took a deep, ragged inhale.

"Pete!" Patrick screamed at the ceiling. Pete lunged forward and an orderly that had appeared out of nowhere grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back. "Pete, don't let it--!"

Like a radio unplugged, Patrick's voice cut off sharply and he went limp, falling back onto the bed. Pete's own fight with the orderly was escalating; he was much smaller but far more desperate. He pulled out of the man's grasp and pushed to Patrick's side, ignoring the cries of a nurse as she was shoved away.

Patrick's eyes were open, normal. As Pete stood by the bed, fingers wrapped around the metal bars, Patrick turned his head and looked up at him, blinking rapidly.

"Peter," Patrick breathed and then closed his eyes.

***

Pete sipped slowly from his cup, tilting his head to listen as the rain poured outside. Detective Jameson looked up from his clipboard. He had seen pictures of Pete Wentz and Patrick Stumph together. Stumph had been as short as Pete here, with sandy-red hair, pale skin and a sweet smile. He'd also seen the video-clips of them on tour; their band had been small but growing in popularity. They might have become _huge_.

"My kid listens to your music," Detective Shelby said suddenly, and Jameson threw him a sour look. Pete smiled slightly, fingers tapping on the surface of the table.

"Yeah? _You_ ever listen?"

Shelby raised one shoulder in a non-committal shrug and Pete's smile grew wider.

"You should." The smile faded. "You'd hear Patrick's voice. It's golden." He gazed down into his cup. "At least. It _was_."

***

"This is your mom's house," Pete said as Joe parked at the curb. Patrick had been completely silent for the entire journey, gazing out the window. He now regarded the house with that same blank expression that had dominated his face since he had woken up in the hospital.

"Patrick?" Joe turned around in the front seat, leaning over Andy's side so he could peer back and Patrick. "Patrick, this is--"

"I heard." Patrick's voice was hard, but he turned and gave them a quick, sharp smile. "I heard, this is my house." He blinked at them slowly and Pete suddenly got a very distinct impression that Patrick was searching his mental notes, the same way a person would rifle through a filing cabinet for information. "I grew up in this house." A question was latticed behind the words and Pete nodded, looking at the eyes of his best friend. Patrick stared back at him, very steadily.

Strange.

Usually, when Pete fixed his eyes on Patrick for too long, a lovely blush would steal over those cheeks and Patrick would duck his head, the corners of his mouth curved up ever so slightly. Patrick was still on the edge of being a teenager and prone to embarrassing crushes.

Now, Patrick's gaze was level and a little amused, as if there was a secret joke that only he knew the punch-line to. Pete stared at him for a little while longer and Patrick's expression became even more secretive, his smile darker.

"I'll get the luggage," Andy said softly, breaking the tense silence. Pete looked away from Patrick as Joe and Andy exited, opening his door and stepping out into the bright day. He looked over the top of the car and spotted Patrick's step-father and mother on the front porch; his mother had one hand up, shading her eyes. Patrick stepped out on the other side and stared at them; he slowly turned to face Pete.

"My mother. And... step-father."

"Yeah." Pete felt as if a cloud had slid across the sun. He had goose-bumps running up his arms. "That's... that's Patricia."

"Patricia. Mom." Patrick gave a jerky nod and turned to face Patricia as she came forward, her face anxious. Her gaze slid over to Pete, who gave her a smile that was more grimace than anything else.

"Hi, Mom," Patrick said brightly and Patricia burst into tears.

***

"Why do you think she cried?" Detective Shelby asked quietly, almost inaudible over the frantic roar of the rain. Jameson let him ask; Shelby sometimes asked questions that didn't seem necessary at first. Being his partner for nearly ten years, Jameson could safely say that every question had a purpose.

Pete Wentz shrugged.

"Maybe she knew something we didn't know."

***

"Pete, can I talk to you for a minute?" Patricia stood at the door to the guest-room that Pete had ensconced himself in. For some reason, he didn't feel like leaving with Andy and Joe. He looked up from the old Enquirer he was reading as he sprawled all over the comforter and smiled, nodding.

Patricia came in and oddly, she looked behind herself into the brightly-lit corridor and then closed the door softly, resting against it.

"Strange how he didn't know his own room at all?" Patricia chuckled weakly. Pete sat up, looking at her closely and she swallowed hard. "Pete... did the doctors say anything about... I don't know. Strange physical after-effects?" Her voice shook a little. Pete shook his head, mystified.

"No. What--"

"His eyes," Patricia whispered and pressed her fist to her mouth. It looked as if she was preventing herself from screaming. Pete got up completely off the bed and went to get her, taking her by the shoulders and leading her to a rocking chair beside the bed, before taking a seat at the edge of the bed. "Pete. I walked his room to check on him, maybe see if he was hungry. He... he was sleeping-- on his back, Patrick never sleeps on his back-- and I just. Shook him a little." She pressed her fingers to her temples, her face wrenched up in frightened misery. Pete had no clue what to do or say.

"He opened his eyes, Pete and _they were all black_." She blinked at him, fighting back tears. "It was only for a second, but I know what I saw."

"Are... are you _sure_?"

"Yes!" she hissed and now she was sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks. "No white, no blue. Just all black and then he blinked and it was normal. I'm not crazy... but that's what I saw."

Pete glanced around quickly, locating a box of Kleenex on the night-table. He reached over and plucked a few from the box, leaning back to hand them to Patricia, who was shaking as she sat in the rocking chair. At a loss, Pete could only watch as she cried as silently as she could; it occurred to him that these seemed to be the tears of a woman in deep mourning.

"I don't know, I don't know." Patricia moaned, as if she was in pain, rocking helplessly. "I don't know who you brought back, Pete, but _that is not my son_."

***

"There were other things," Pete said, nodding at Shelby as a second cup of coffee was brought in, accompanied by a plate of donuts that Shelby had probably swiped from Alvarez's desk. Pete looked at them as if he was seeing right through the donuts and at the plate instead, then shook himself slightly. "Like... he forgot about music."

Jameson frowned over his notes. "Well. Amnesiacs tend to do that, Pete. Forget."

Pete nodded, a small sad smile curling at his lips. "I know. But... Patrick was _made_ of music. He'd pick up any instrument and _dominate_ it in a day. Maybe two." His smile grew fond for a moment and then slipped off his face. "But... he just _forgot_. You'd think he'd have some sort of... I dunno, residual memory, even physical memory, because his fingers wouldn't forget, right? No, though. Nothing at all. And he looked at my words as if he'd never seen them before."

Jameson nodded. It had been a fairly unique arrangement in their band: the bassist writing the words and the lead singer putting it all together. It seemed to be a formula that had worked pretty spectacularly. Until the lead singer had seemed to become some sort of _tabula rasa_.

"And then," Pete said, so quiet that he could barely be heard under the rain. "There was that thing he was making."

***

"Where are you guys going?" Pete tried to sound cheerful as he bounded into Patricia's kitchen. Joe and Andy were more subdued, but they were smiling as well, taking off scarves and jackets. Patrick was bundled up tightly, his eyes cool behind his glasses as Patricia rummaged through her purse.

"Patrick needs some stuff," she said, sounding fairly normal. She looked at Pete and smiled; he could see it was a weak attempt. "I don't know what kind of stuff! But he needs it."

"Yeah. I need stuff." Patrick blinked slowly at them. Pete didn't like it; he looked like a robot booting up slowly. "I'll just be... in the car."

"I'll go with," Andy offered, pulling his scarf back on. There was a grateful flash across Patricia's pixie-like face. Patrick and Andy went out, but she held back, tugging on her coat.

"He's building something," she said in a low voice. "He was too busy working on it to see Kevin earlier. Maybe... you could--"

"Yeah," Pete said, feeling slightly ill. "We'll check it out."

"Okay." She hesitated and then gave both Pete and Joe a tight hug. "Stuff. He doesn't eat much, he doesn't come out of his room, but he's building _stuff_."

Joe and Pete exchanged frowns as Patricia went out; they heard the car start up and back out carefully over the icy drive-way.

"Let's go." Pete walked up the stairs two at a time, reaching Patrick's door and trying it, even though he had suspected from before that it would be locked. His suspicions were correct. "Fuck."

"His bedroom window was cracked open a little," Joe advised. "I saw it when we were coming in. Climb onto the porch roof, it'll be easy."

Easier said than done, but still attainable. Pete struggled with the window, hoping no one was across the street on this quiet Wednesday, calling the cops. They both tumbled into the messy room; it was deathly cold in there, and alarmingly messy. Pete pulled down the window, trying to close out the chilly air and looked around numbly, his breath hanging in shocked white puffs in front of his mouth. Patrick was always a bit of a slob, but this was astounding. Clothes were all over the ground, flung over the unmade bed, pillows thrown on the floor to accompany piles of shoes. Patrick's beloved vinyls were fanned out carelessly on top of the mess. Pete blinked numbly.

"Fuck, what is _this_?" Joe was peering at something on Patrick's work-desk. Pete looked over his shoulder. The desk was the only pristine area in the entire room, tiny screwdrivers laid out neatly beside what appeared to be a round, shallow metal plate; a slender steel tube stood about five inches tall, right in the center of the plate. Wires were soldered neatly all around the tube, leading from the tube to a flat panel right beside the tube, where a tiny digital display was flashing strange symbols. A small red light glowed dully at the top of the panel.

"Know what this looks like?" Joe mused, tilting his head. "This looks like... a satellite dish."

"Why would he be building something like that?" Pete bent closer. He noticed that the strange symbols were cycling through a set series; they resembled hieroglyphics. One was obviously a closed eye symbol, and another was an open eye. One resembled a key; one, a small collection of dots arranged in a triangular shape.

Pete shivered.

"I dunno," Joe said in a small voice. "Maybe... he needs to send a signal."

 _To who_? Pete was just about to voice this, when they both heard the sound of Patricia's car returning, the horn tooting almost as if in warning. Shit, what were they doing back already? They turned to the door, but it had one of those doorknobs that would only be closed again with its own key.

"Out the fucking window," Pete said desperately, but Joe hung onto his arm.

"Wait. We have to wait until they're inside, they'll see."

They stood still in Patrick's cold, messy room, hearing the front door open downstairs.

"Now," Joe hissed and they yanked the window back up as quietly as they dared, slipping out onto the roof over the porch; Joe tugged the window back down and they stood as still as they could, hoping Patrick wouldn't feel the urge to look out the window.

They heard Patrick's key in his room-door and then his soft steps as he entered. There was a slight rustling sound and then Patrick said a word, but it was no word in English, at least, not as far as Pete knew. A clicking sound started and then an urgent series of beeps.

"Patrick? Everything ok?" Patricia sounded as if she was standing at the bottom of the stairs. "Do you want to go back out again?"

"Everything's fine here." Patrick's voice was toneless. "Yes. Everything is fine."

Another harsh, not-English word and the noises stopped; Patrick's door closed again.

"Psst!"

Joe and Pete looked over the edge of the porch roof; Andy was outside, looking up at them. He cast a worried look at the entry and then motioned at them urgently. They hurried over and off, quickly and quietly, hanging off the edge by their hands and dropping to the frost-covered yard.

As they brushed themselves off, Patrick himself exited and looked at them curiously.

"Where were you two?" He tilted his head, Patricia stepping out behind him and looking at them over his shoulder. "What were you doing outside?"

"Oh, some bullshit," Pete lied smoothly. "Just fucking around."

Patrick looked at him, eyes solemn and then smiled so brilliantly that Pete felt his throat close up. For just a moment, he looked... like before.

It was the last time Pete would see him smile that way again.

***

"And then?" Shelby asked, sounding breathless.

"And then," Pete said dully, "There was State Street Bridge."

"State Street Bridge," Jameson repeated. "Are you going to tell us what happened at the river?"

Pete started to shake his head.

"I don't remember."

"Try harder."

Pete's mouth tightened.

"I... I remember following him to State Street. His mother asked me to." He closed his eyes, the skin of his face taut.

"And what _happened_? Come on, Pete." Jameson couldn't help but feel impatient. Shelby threw him a censoring expression.

"He _fell_." Pete was whispering but Jameson thought that it was either this or flat-out screaming. "He fell."

***

"He goes out and comes in late," Patricia said over her cup of tea; she liked tea a lot, even in the dead of night. The air was bitingly cold. "With... that thing you told me about."

"The satellite-thingy, Joe says."

"Yes. He brings that too." Her eyes were large and dark in her face. Pete noted that there were a lot of lines around her eyes and more grey hairs than had been there before Patrick had returned home. "Can you... follow him for me? I just want to make sure he's okay."

"You do?"

"He still looks like my son."

"Pat," Pete sighed. "Don't you think we should... tell somebody?"

Patricia looked hunted and scornful at the same time; Pete thought that she looked very much like Patrick when he hadn't liked one of Pete's ideas. "Tell them _what_? That there's something mighty strange about my son? That he woke up and he's just not the same? That he's not doing anything too weird, he's just... _different?_ "

"I don't know." Pete wished Andy and Joe were here. They were spending the New Years' with their own family and Pete had come over for a visit. And Patrick's step-dad was not much help. He always seemed to stay out of the house. Patrick must freak him out especially. "Where's Mulder when you need him?"

"You're impossible," Patricia said and they both froze when they heard Patrick's room door open. "But you love him," she whispered quickly and Pete didn't have time to nod as Patrick walked into the kitchen, a messenger bag slung across his shoulder. "Out again?" Pete had to hand it to her, she sounded perky enough.

"Yes." Patrick's smile was knowing. "But this will be the last time."

Patricia and Pete exchanged a quick look as Patrick exited and Pete gave him a little time, before going out to follow him in his own car.

Pete wasn't the best of drivers, but Patrick was a slowpoke in Patricia's car. Pete followed him, growing even more mystified as they proceeded downtown. Patrick pulled over before reaching the bridge and to Pete's amazement, began to blithely cross it.

"The fuck?" Pete parked right behind him and got out, walking quickly as well. The traffic wasn't very heavy, but they were still buffeted by the passing of the vehicles. Patrick stopped in the middle of the bridge, looking down at the black, icy water.

"Peter Wentz," Patrick said softly. Pete didn't actually hear him, but he saw those chapped lips move. "Come closer, my friend. Learn something."

"Are you still my friend?" Pete inched closer. He didn't like bridges, not at all. Patrick laughed, a soft cruel sound, and reached into his bag, taking out the tiny metal satellite. "What's that, Patrick?"

"A beacon." Patrick sounded cheerful as he affixed the satellite to the metal railing. "It... calls. I've made quite a few of them, you know. All these bridges now have one, so that the signal is strong. The metal in the bridges is quite an excellent amplifier."

"Who are you calling?" Pete hugged himself. "Where's Patrick?"

Patrick turned deceptively large and wounded eyes to him; in the light thrown by the streetlamps, his eyes looked all black.

"I'm right in front of you."

"I know you're not him," Pete whispered, hugging himself abjectly. Patrick looked at him steadily, those cold eyes....so Not Patrick. "I... I don't think you're even human."

"Hmm," Patrick said. "Why would you think that."

It wasn't even a question. Pete shivered, feeling those eyes pull over his hunched over body;

"I know him. I know Patrick. And you're not him. I'm sure of it."

Patrick.... or Not Patrick leaned forward and, with a deep cold curl of horror, Pete saw that his eyes really _were_ all black, no white showing; he was smiling broadly as Pete recoiled, stepping away hurriedly.

"You know what," Patrick whispered and then smiled coldly. "You might be right."

Patrick turned to his little machine, dismissing Pete as he ran his hand over the small display. The small red light grew brighter and the metal plate began to hum; the sound seemed to seep into the bridge, resonating. There was a blue flash and Pete was reminded of the light in the accident.

That same sinister blue light was emitting from the metal tube, a pencil-thin line going from this bridge to the nearest one, where Pete assumed one of the other little contraptions was located; Patrick nodded in satisfaction.

 _Stop him_. It was a particularly strong thought and the strangest thing was that it had popped into Pete's mind using Patrick's voice. Not this Patrick. The real one, the warm laughing one that Pete had been completely in love with and knew now he would never see again. _Pete, stop him_.

 _How?_

 _Stop him._

Pete lunged forward, but Not Patrick turned and grabbed him by the throat, holding and squeezing with just a narrowing of those awful eyes.

"Our time is close, Peter," Not Patrick said conversationally and it seemed the whole bridge hummed in agreement. "I may have mercy on you when we ascend. This body's emotions for you were very strong." His grin was feral as Pete struggled ineffectually, clawing at his arm.

"They still are," Pete choked out and the black eyes opened wide. The black flickered, warring with the natural blue of Patrick's eyes and Pete didn't even think as Patrick's grip loosened; he immediately wrenched himself out of Patrick's grasp, crouched down and sprang forward, like a linebacker going for the quarterback. Patrick yelled, his voice harsh in the night air and as Pete fought with the other man against the railing, the metal plate was smashed, the frightening blue light snapping out of existence immediately.

Not Patrick shrieked and turned on Pete in renewed fury.

Pete was ready for him. He crouched again, his thigh-muscles screaming in agony and wrapped his arms around Not Patrick's legs as he barreled into him. Patrick beat at his head even as Pete spun and hefted him in the air, his back lancing with pain at the sudden weight.

And... he _hurled_ him over the railing.

Part of Pete's mind went absolutely gibbering _insane_ as he leaned over the railing and watched Not Patrick fall, turning over and over, so slowly into the river, screaming. Pete was actually _sobbing_ and so did not even realize the speed with which a strange blue light flashed out of the dark, icy water right after Patrick sank beneath the surface.

***

Pete came out of the police station, rubbing one hand over his face, blinking slowly. Jameson and Shelby would have more questions but without a body, the investigations would be slow. Patricia had been almost inconsolable. His father would take care of anything else.

He smiled as he hailed a taxi and settled comfortably into the back seat, making sure that the driver could not see his face in the rear-view mirror as he gave low directions to his home in Wilmette. The driver might be freaked out at his black eyes.

He had to hurry, though. He had a beacon to build.

 _fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration from the movie _The Astronaut's Wife_. I really liked that movie.


End file.
